


Every Road You Take Will Lead You Home

by roboticonography



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Lazy Mornings, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 19:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12372393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: "Diana likes to tease Steve that, out of all the things he loves about the new century, she comes a far distant second to hot running water."A lazy morning in Diana's Paris apartment.





	Every Road You Take Will Lead You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Wondertrev Network Drabblethon](https://wondertrevnet.tumblr.com/post/165989440445/ahoy-shipmates-please-gather-your-feelings-and) on Tumblr.
> 
> Title and general mood inspired by [this mashup](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzARx0EuDgc).
> 
> You can thank [this gifset](http://stars-benn.tumblr.com/post/163572003628/i-dont-know-what-perfect-means-i-guess-i-dont) for Steve’s bedroom eyes.

Diana likes to tease Steve that, out of all the things he loves about the new century, she comes a far distant second to hot running water.

He still hasn’t quite gotten over the novelty of it: an unlimited supply of clean water, not having to be pumped up from the ground by hand, or collected in rain barrels. There’d been indoor plumbing in London, of course, but back home, growing up, he’d had to make do with a spring and an outdoor privy. He has some outrageous and amusing stories about the latter, a couple of which she suspects might actually be true.

And so he starts each day with a long shower, the water as hot as he can stand it. Occasionally she joins him, in the interest of being environmentally conscious; however, despite her best intentions, they are never able to save much water.

After bathing, despite having fogged up every mirrored surface within reach, he somehow manages to shave. He struggled, at first, with the strange chemical foam, the tiny disposable razor; he’d emerge from the bathroom looking as though he’d been on the fringes of a grenade strike, his face dotted with nicks and scrapes.  
  
He’s mastered it now, though, and takes every opportunity to show off—rubbing his jaw against her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. As though she needs another excuse to touch him.

The next part of his routine she can only imagine, because he certainly would never admit to it: he stands in front of the mirror, doing all those silly, lovely things men do when they think they aren’t being observed. Striking poses, flexing, making faces, fussing with his hair.

As much as she wants to hold him close (kiss him breathless, press him into the mattress, mark his soft skin, _claim him_ ) she doesn’t begrudge him his rare moments of solitude.

As if her thoughts have conjured him, he emerges from the mist: hair damp, chest and stomach still rosy from the scalding water. Towel riding low on his hips, he crosses the bedroom to the dresser, giving her ample time to appreciate the view.

She knows he does it on purpose—when pressed, he will cheerfully admit that vanity is his great failing—but the truth is, she enjoys admiring him as much as he enjoys being admired. He is beautiful, and all the more so because he is hers.

And so she lounges on the unmade bed, and watches him pick out his clothes.

It feels decadent; she normally rises with the dawn. But today is Sunday, and it had suited them both to lie abed until well after the sun had risen—not the fierce chariot of Apollo, but a pale, watery impostor that barely has time to warm her cheeks before fading away.

At this time of year, more than any other, she misses Themyscira. Spring has a chaos and energy to it that she loves, and winter still hasn’t lost its charm; but fall, even in a city as magnificent as Paris, feels like the entire world is fading into a dreamless sleep. It’s still dark in the mornings when she arrives at the office, and dark again before she leaves. A damp chill creeps into her bones at the changing of the leaves, and settles there until the first crisp snowfall.

But this year, it is different.

This year, there is Steve.

Steve, who is summer in human form, from the blazing gold of his hair to the hot blue sky of his gaze.

Steve, who is no more of her world than she is of his, but who makes her feel more at home than she has in a century.

It hasn’t been easy for him, she knows. He is still too invested in archaic notions of _manliness_ to enumerate his many losses, but she can read his face well enough: a slight knotting of his brow when she mentions a dear departed friend, or the tiniest crease at the corner of his mouth when he has to reckon with some unpalatable piece of information about modern humanity.

But he seems as happy to be here as she is to have him. And for that single gift, she thanks the gods eternally.

He pulls a shirt from a drawer, shakes his head over it, and stuffs it back, now hopelessly crumpled. With each movement, the afternoon light gilds his scars: the crosshatch over one shoulder, a stippled patch climbing the ladder of his ribs.

“Where are we going for breakfast?”

“My love,” she says, languidly, simply for the pleasure of the words on her lips. “It’s well past noon.”

“So we’ll have breakfast instead of little breakfast.” A second shirt, virtually identical to the first, somehow meets with his approval, and joins the pile on the dresser.

It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who once explained to her, with curious emphasis, the concept of keeping to a schedule.

He catches her eye and grins at her, letting the towel slide lower.  
  
“Such a strutting peacock,” she murmurs.

He winks. “Let me know if you see something you like.”

“I’d like to see you dress yourself in under an hour.”

He tosses the towel away with a dramatic flourish, and not an ounce of shame. Which is fair, given that he has nothing to be ashamed of. He turns to face her, hands on his narrow hips, directing her gaze to the source of his pride.

Now, informed by a century of experience, she understands why he once seemed so pleased to assure her that he was an _above average_ man.

If anything, it was an understatement.

Diana will not look. Instead, she feigns a yawn, pressing the back of her hand to her lips.

Undeterred, Steve steps closer to the bed, looking down at her from beneath lowered lids. He brushes a hand across his mouth, over his chin, down his throat—softly, lovingly. The way she might touch him, if she were so inclined.

He is determined to be seduced, apparently, even if he has to resort to doing the job himself.

“It could be dinner,” he suggests, “instead of breakfast.”

There can be a kind of pleasure in equivocation, she knows, but Diana has never been the sort of person to wait for the things she wants. She craves the sun, but the scorch of Steve’s skin against hers is a tonic against even the coldest night.

“You are _ridiculous_ ,” she tells him, pulling him down roughly.

He beams. “You love it.”

She does.

**Author's Note:**

> In France, breakfast is usually “petit déjeuner” (or little déjeuner) and lunch is “déjeuner”. In most of the rest of the French-speaking world, “déjeuner” is usually breakfast. Ergo, breakfast and little breakfast.
> 
> I realize having to explain a joke means that it probably didn't land with a good portion of your audience, but all you really need to know is that Steve is being a wiseass. ;)


End file.
